Pursuing the wary speckled trout,
We followed the brooklet in and out
Of its many winding, crooked turns,
Through shadowed places and waist-high ferns.
Beneath and arching summer sky,
We dangled bait to tempt his eye.
A swift dart and tug at the line ---
And he was gone, leaving no sign
Of being there seconds before;
Then we had to turn home once more.
Yes these we shall have for many days:
The scent of crushed mint leaves and the way
Tiny blue forget-me-nots look
Clustered along a pasture brook.
~ Edith Shaw Butler
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